


fear of the water.

by Cat__nevermind



Series: lately, it always seems to be Finnick Odair [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Annie's family, Dark Humor, Explicit Language, F/M, Finnick Odair-centric, Forced Prostitution, Hallucinations, Hunger Games Victors, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss, Madness, Mags is a great mum, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Odesta, POV Annie Cresta, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, domestic district 4, too many ocean metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat__nevermind/pseuds/Cat__nevermind
Summary: "She knows him like she knows the tides, an ancient, unshakeable certainty, set in her bones."Annie deals with life after the Games. Finnick tries not to run.
Relationships: Annie Cresta & Mags, Annie Cresta & Mags & Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Finnick Odair & Mags
Series: lately, it always seems to be Finnick Odair [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801981
Comments: 10
Kudos: 93





	fear of the water.

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the second part of the series. There are going to be two more after this, so stay tuned!
> 
> Mentions of rape/non-con elements, suicidal thoughts, extreme mental health issues, death and loss, blood, hallucinations and PTSD. 
> 
> Take care and stay safe!

Annie Cresta has been asleep for weeks.

Or at least that’s what it feels like. The bed smells of sweat and unused fabric, an odd mixture that aggravates her nose and seems to tell her in a very blunt and unfriendly fashion that this bed she barely ever leaves now isn’t her own and that it isn’t very comfortable with her invasion of it.

She wants to explain to the bed why she can’t get up and why she doesn’t care if it likes her here or not, but she cannot find the right words to do so and she isn’t even sure if it would understand her if she did.

Annie has been drifting, always asleep but sometimes with open eyes. It’s easier to float on top of the strange sheets than to ever get out of bed. She likes to imagine she’s in the water, it coats her body and keeps her soft and safe, she can dive into it, hide her face under the blanket, hold her breath for hours until she has to come up for air and she never wants to get out of the water again.

Since she’s fallen asleep, the light hasn’t changed colour, it’s always sunset, gentle and orange and maybe, she thinks, the sun has decided to rest a little too, to give her time to swim.

From time to time, food appears on her bedside table, she only eats if it doesn’t glow, the taste of fish and seafood is comforting, but only on the good days. She has to leave for the bathroom now and then, but she never remembers what it was like outside of bed when she’s back underneath the covers. Her mind stays asleep.

It’s better that way, Annie knows that, she’s not exactly sure why but it doesn’t really matter, for now, she has to sleep and swim and drift away into an endless sunset.

One day, she opens her eyes and finds him sitting by the bed, tired eyes and furrowed brows, his chin in his hand, elbow rested on his knee. He wears clothes that cover every inch of his skin, except for his hands and face, and Annie wonders why, she’s always sweating nowadays, never able to cool down.

If she thinks about it, maybe he’s been sitting there before, she never registered his presence but now that she tries to remember, she realises he’s been there most of the time. She’s not sure why she notices today of all days.

Maybe it’s time to break the surface.

When she looks at him, his expression changes, he looks startled, lifts his head and his lips move to form her name. If he makes an actual sound, she doesn’t hear him, it’s drowned out by different noises, a rumbling of stones and the angry rush of an unleashed river, children screaming, gurgling with water in their lungs.

Annie screams, too.

In her dream, she’s with Lewis. He tells her not to trust Finnick Odair.

He touches her hand and his fingers are wet, his voice is the river and then his head falls off and blood streams down his neck, covers his chest and fills the room, until Annie is covered in it as well, and she wakes up gasping for air.

She kicks her legs to untangle herself from the foreign sheets, frantically rubs her hands on her nightgown to get rid of the blood. It’s everywhere, she can even taste it on her tongue, and she cries out for Lewis to come and help her.

For a moment, she thinks he heard her, a pair of strong hands grab her shoulders and steady her, but the fingers are too soft, Lewis’ were calloused from fishing and weaving and wielding his spear, so she screams again and tries to push them away.

“Annie”, he says. “Annie, you’re okay now, Annie, you’re safe. Annie. _Annie_.”

And because she’s exhausted and weak, she collapses against him, stops fighting and allows him to tuck her in. He keeps whispering her name and slowly, his voice fades into the sound of waves, a lullaby, singing her back to sleep.

_Annie. I’ll protect you, Annie. I’m here with you. You’re safe. I’m not leaving you. Annie._

So, this becomes their game.

He holds onto her when she loses her mind and most of the time, she lets him. If she’s awake long enough to think about it afterwards, she always feels guilty. Lewis said not to trust him, and Lewis is dead, she knows that now, her dreams keep telling her, sometimes he even tells her himself. It feels wrong to disregard his warning, especially now that he’s dead and she still isn’t.

Time is a concept that’s unknown to her, it seems to be a surreal thing to rely on and therefore she doesn’t, it’s just the rude bed and the never-ending dusk, her nightmares and from time to time, there’s Finnick Odair.

His hands always find her whenever she starts to shake, they help her regain balance and carefully make sure she’ll be alright.

But the next time she regains consciousness, she’s alone.

In the back of her head she can almost hear Lewis’ voice _don’t trust him, Annie, he’s one of them now and he doesn’t give two shits about us._

At the moment, she feels like she should have taken Lewis’ advice more seriously. It takes her a while to calm down, even longer until her fingers stop fumbling with the seam of her nightdress, and when she finally does, the only thing she really feels is disappointment.

More accurately, she is angry. He’s supposed to be here with her, promised it, swore to her he wouldn’t leave her to fight the current on her own. Lewis was right.

 _Finnick Odair - what a fucking liar_.

Annie claws her way up the wall until she’s sitting upright and for the first time in, well, how long exactly she doesn’t know, but it feels like an awfully long time, she’s aware of her surroundings in a rational way.

The bed has no unasked-for opinions on her circumstances, she’s not in the water and the steady orange light isn’t the unmoved sunset she was longing for, but merely a weak light bulb on the ceiling above. The shutters are closed and except for the bed and the lonely chair next to it, his chair, she realises, there’s barely any furniture, not to mention anything else in the room with her.

It hits her like a punch in the guts (she knows she took one of those before but right now she can’t tell when and why) how dismal the room looks; how utterly miserable it makes her feel. She wishes she could go back to not noticing.

Since her wish is unfairly denied, Annie decides she can’t stay. Staring at the empty chair, the evidence of his betrayal only makes her more and more agitated and so she gets up, like she would to walk over to the bathroom, but instead of moving in her usual cycle, she steps out into the hallway and heads the other way.

Something about this feels excitingly forbidden, like sneaking out of the window to meet friends after curfew. Or wandering through the training centre at night, Lewis’ hand on her arm, their ecstatic giggles when they hid from another nightly couple.

The only difference is that Annie is alone now. Abandoned, she thinks.

_Fucking Finnick Odair._

She finds a staircase at the end of the hall and gingerly takes a few steps, before pausing and listening. Someone seems to be downstairs, there’s an almost familiar sound, a soft rattling, domestic noise, a woman’s voice humming offkey.

It frightens her, and for a moment, Annie contemplates running and hiding, going back to her false sanctuary, back to staying alone, but safe, somehow, safe.

Then she remembers that Annie Cresta is not a coward and continues the descent until she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Now, she can see around the corner into a kitchen. It’s bigger than the one they used to have at home, with large windows and a homelike atmosphere.

As she enters the room, Annie recognises Mags, she’s washing the dishes with her back turned to Annie, quietly singing to herself.

Since she doesn’t know what to do, or if she should try to get her attention at all, Annie just stands and watches, studies the way her hair falls over her shoulders and the systematic movement of her hands, wonders why she of all people is in this house with her.

Then, Mags turns to put the plates away and discovers Annie in the doorway.

“Oh”, she says softly, not even mildly startled to find her there.

“I didn’t think you’d be coming down here today, Annie.”

Her voice is gentle, and she places the plate on the counter very slowly, apparently trying not to scare Annie off.

“Where is he?”

It must be the first time she’s spoken in days, weeks, maybe even ever, at least after Lewis, after everything. After the arena.

The arena - that’s an unwelcome thought, it brings memories and tumult to her head, things she doesn’t want to think about, a river and the gurgling screams, sweet, sweet water in her lungs.

“Annie, dear, I think it would be better for you to go lie back down.”

Mags’ tone of voice doesn’t exactly invite any talking back, but Annie is drowning and clinging on to the only clear thought that still dominates her brain, the one thing that isn’t affected by the chaos the arena has unleashed.

“Where is he?”, she demands again, her voice somewhere between furious and panicked.

A part of her doesn’t know if she’s talking about Lewis or Finnick Odair.

Mags replies something that’s too quiet for Annie to hear - the fucking river is way too loud - and then she steps forward to put a hand on her shoulder, the touch stays more or less unnoticed and Annie instead asks herself if she could drown despite being on land.

“Let’s go get you back upstairs, alright?”, Mags murmurs.

“No! I don’t wanna go back, I want to know where he is!”

She realises she’s raising her voice, protesting like a stupid little child. Mags’ grip on her arm tightens.

“Annie, please, calm down. Finnick isn’t here today, but he’ll be back, don’t worry, okay?”

Irrational anger shoots through her body when Mags says his name out loud.

“He said he wouldn’t leave me! He said he’d stay, he said I wouldn’t be alone!”, she yells, trying to break away from Mags, but she just grabs her other arm as well, her fingers digging into Annie’s skin.

“I know. He’ll be back, I promise. You will be fine. But for now, I need you to calm down.”

“Stop with the fucking promises! He’s a liar – and so are you! You’re both fucking liars!”

The water is now rushing through her, knocking her off her feet and pulling her along, she’s part of the river and her fury is drowned in the fresh water that’s inside off her, around her, everywhere. Annie can feel herself crumbling and it’s only thanks to Mags’ steady hands of steal that she doesn’t fall to her knees.

Lewis’ voice in her head keeps repeating his warning. _Don’t trust him, Annie, he’s one of them._

She presses her hands over her ears and starts to scream.

When Annie wakes up, she’s in bed again.

For once, she didn’t have a nightmare, just a pleasant dream of walking through her childhood home, chasing the traces of her family, wandering through distant memories of peace. If she thinks about it now, they always used to be a happy family before that reaping, not exactly rich, but on the wealthier side of District Four, just enough for them to never have to worry about starving. All of a sudden, she’s struck by an unexpected feeling of guilt: She hasn’t seen her family at all since she’s come back, at least not when she was awake, actually awake.

Annie wonders if they’re still in the same old house and if they ever came to visit. Maybe, she thinks, it’s not she who is to blame. Maybe they don’t want to see her.

And anyway, isn’t she supposed to get a house of her own now? Where they could all live together and have enough space for Mariah, Ronny and her not to have to share a room? If this house with the strange bed in it is hers, why aren’t they here with her? What was Mags Flanagan doing in her kitchen?

There’s something different about the room now, it takes her a moment to realise it, but when she does, it feels like the change is obvious. Conspicuous.

Then, she notices Finnick Odair.

Of course he’s the cause of this shift in the atmosphere, the strange alteration Annie can feel tickling her skin. Lately, it always seems to be him.

The way he looks now, Annie could have mistaken him for a young god, a sleeping sea creature, with skin as golden and smooth as the finely ground sand at the bottom of the ocean, with breath the scent of salt and stormy nights, and algae winding around his head like curls of hair.

In the dim light, he is breathtakingly beautiful.

Annie imagines him swimming, moving with the waves, catching seaweed between his fingers with every stroke, perfectly at home among the rise and fall of the tides. She wonders why she’s never seen him swim before, wants to wake him and ask if they can go to the beach and make up for it now, but even before she remembers why she can’t, she knows she isn’t going to do something as cruel as that.

Because, impossibly, Finnick seems to be at peace.

She never really bothered to think about it before, always assumed he was, well, Finnick Odair, but now that she sees him untroubled, Annie realises it must be for the first time ever.

Usually, there’s something in his eyes, an indistinct indication lurking at the edge of his smile, which is too pretty to be true and too shiny to not be fake, just a tiny little hint of concern. Now that he’s asleep though, it’s nowhere to be seen, has vanished like the sun after it set.

Annie knows that just because you cannot see something, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Finnick is bent forward, his head resting on his arms on the bed, but body still awkwardly positioned in the chair beside it. He’s wearing several layers of clothing and again Annie is amazed that he doesn’t even seem to be sweating.

Of course he doesn’t sweat, she thinks. It’s Finnick Odair, what did she expect?

And this is how she remembers what he did and why she was mad at him, how he left her and broke his promise. Naturally, anger blooms inside of her again, fuelled by hurt, accelerated by fear, but despite its urgency, Annie doesn’t move.

She stays still, prepped up on her elbows, head tilted to the side, and carefully studies the way his lips part when he exhales, how his eyes move beneath the closed lids, almost invisible, like the way thin strands of her hair would float loosely in the breeze when she used to help her father on the boat on the open sea.

In fact, now that she’s looking, it’s unexpectedly hard to part her eyes from him again, not to mention disturb his slumber.

A part of her wants to be mean, push him off the bed or wake him by flicking her fingers against his temple, she really wants him to know how much it hurt to wake up with blood on her fingers and in her mouth but with him nowhere to be found. How she barely managed to remember time and space and the fact that Lewis’ death was someplace else, at another time and therefore the leftovers from her nightmare had to be nothing but demons in her head.

The sad reality is that, in spite of what Lewis had told her about Finnick, she subconsciously relied on him and his promises. After all, he is the one who got her out of the arena in the first place.

It made it easy to believe he could conquer any impossibility.

_Miracle maker. Famous Finnick Odair._

Now, Annie isn’t sure what to believe anymore.

The other part of her, the pacific one, knows that there are things no one can beat. Things like the ticking of a clock, the current once it has taken a hold of you, starvation, the Capitol. Stupid of her to imagine he could. Stupid and terribly unfair.

The truth is this: In sleep, he looks like a child, and it reminds Annie that he’s merely a year older than she is, a former tribute, another victor, another victim. And since that is all there is, for now, she simply stays and watches. It keeps the river of corpses away from her thoughts.

Annie supposes she’ll have enough time to be angry another day.

“I’m sorry”, he says, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.

Weary, Annie observes. Contrite.

She tries to make sense of him by staring, over her raised cup, but it doesn’t work remotely as well as it did last night when he was asleep. Or maybe that was a few nights ago? These sorts of things still are terribly confusing to her.

Today is a day for progress. For the first time in forever, Annie has gotten up and walked down the stairs in the morning, it felt like the right thing to do, she vaguely remembers a routine of breakfast with her siblings before school, a crowded kitchen and steaming cups of tea.

Mags seemed less surprised than Finnick when she saw Annie taking a seat at the table, she offered her tea, a different one than what Annie’s family used to have, but she’s still thankful for the familiarity. It’s a filmy sense of security.

Finnick, pleasantly unbothered by her silence, pours an ungodly amount of sugar into his cup and adds: “Mags told me you were upset. Believe me, I wasn’t very happy either, but I’m still sorry I had to leave.”

Annie takes a sip, notices dark circles around his eyes and the unusual light tinge of his skin. Not perfect at all, she thinks. She had expected a feeling of satisfaction upon this revelation, but for some reason it still doesn’t lift her spirits in the slightest.

Mags says: “You should go for a walk on the beach today, Annie. The weather is great.”

“You should come too then”, Finnick offers through a mouthful of bread.

“I am going to help Derek with the nets.”

“Oh come on, Mags, really? You’re going to help that asshole?”

“Language, young man!”

She shoots him a stern glance, while methodically cutting an apple into pieces. Finnick groans.

“You know he’s been whining about those nets just to get you to patch them for him.”

“And since it’s the only way to shut him up, I am going to do it. Besides, it’s not like there’s much else to do, is there? And don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s Tuesday today.”

“You know, it’s this exact kind of behaviour that gives that man the idea complaining to you will convince you to help him!”, Finnick goes on, but there’s no spite in his voice. Clearly, he’s just bickering out of habit.

“Well, unlike you, I actually like being productive.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel bad.”

“What’s on Tuesdays?”, Annie asks.

They both turn to look at her, Mags with the hint of a smile around her lips and Finnick with brows raised so far, they disappear under the soft twirls of hair that frame his face.

“On Tuesdays”, Mags explains delightedly, “it’s Finnick’s turn to prepare dinner.”

“I don’t know why you keep insisting on that stupid schedule, though. You hate my cooking just as much as I do”, he mumbles, his tone of voice doesn’t change but Annie notices him peering at her out of the corner of his eye.

“First of all, responsibility, young man. I am not your cook.”

“You’re not Derek Stansion’s net-weaver either but helping him out is a virtue to you.”

“And secondly”, she continues as if she hadn’t heard him, “secondly, practise makes perfect. Every man should know how to cook, Finnick Odair.”

There’s unashamed affection in her scolding and Finnick grins at her over his breakfast. Annie shifts in her chair uncomfortably.

“Where’s my family?”

She believes she never used to be blunt before, but now it’s hard to find a way to articulate important things less blatantly.

Finnick and Mags exchange a look, it makes Annie feel a tingle in her stomach, resembling the irrational anger she felt before. Or maybe, this time it’s fear.

“They’re just across the street”, Finnick says, “in your house in the Victor’s Village.”

“Whose house is this?”

She can’t help her voice sounding fragile.

“Why am I not with them? Why haven’t they come to see me?”

Again, Finnick and Mags seem to communicate without saying a word.

“What?”, she asks, more pressingly than before. There’s the river hissing in the back of her head.

“Annie”, Mags says gently, “they have been to see you. Several times, right after you came back. But they agreed that you were better off staying with us, since I have quite a bit of experience.”

Annie tries to register the meaning of her words, tries to catch Finnick’s eye, but he obstinately keeps his gaze fixed on his hands, fingers flat on the table.

“I want to see them”, she chokes out.

“Of course”, Mags replies immediately. “If you feel up for it, Finnick can walk you over right after breakfast.”

Finnick’s head jerks up and he looks at her for a second as if he were about to disagree, then he just stares back at his fingers again. Annie wants to tell Mags off for assuming she needs his help walking across the street, but she realises what facing her family implies, and swiftly stops herself from saying anything.

Mags claps her hands together and gets up.

“That’s settled then”, she says, not without a complacent undertone in her voice.

And indeed, that is settled then.

Inexplicably, Annie fusses over what to wear. It’s not even like there’s much of a choice, Mags has put out some clothes for her, a simple white blouse, and grey trousers, Annie briefly wonders who they belong to, and then spends an awfully long time tugging everything into place, trying to look as presentable as possible. Which is nothing but ridiculous.

The clothes don’t change a thing about her haggard face, chapped lips and dull eyes, the madness behind. She chuckles at that, quietly and to herself, and then braces herself for what’s coming.

“Was there a dress code no one told me about?”, Finnick asks when she meets him in front of the house. He’s wearing an old long-sleeved sweater and a pair of trousers that may or may not be covered in sand from the knees down.

Annie supposes he meant it as a joke, he’s smiling, but not quite the way she’s seen him do it on television. It’s somewhat unnerving.

“Then again”, he continues, offering her his arm, “I’ve been told that I could pull of literally anything and make it look stunning.”

Annie doesn’t take his arm, only stares at him for a moment, then turns to march towards the house across the street. Something about this feels familiar, in a way, it’s just like going into battle.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Annoyingly, Finnick keeps up with her easily.

“I need to see them”, she insists and then pauses to look back at the house they’re coming from.

“That’s Mags’ house isn’t it?”, she asks.

He nods and turns to follow her gaze. Truthfully, the houses in the Victor’s Village all look pretty identical, too big and too shiny for sandy District Four where you’d usually find shells stuck in the façade of every building and where salt covers every inch of life like a second skin.

“So, which one is yours? Where’s your family? And why are you staying with Mags?”

His smile falters and there’s an entirely new expression in his eyes when he points at the house next to Mags’. It doesn’t look as if anyone has lived there in at least a decade.

“That one’s mine. The one next to it is Derek’s. He’s an asshole”, Finnick explains.

The sun hits his face and he squints, keeps looking at the houses when he says:

“Mags is the only family I have now. She took me in when I came back, and I’ve lived with her ever since.”

Although he makes it sound very simple, Annie can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than he lets on. When he turns back to her, the dark circles under his eyes seem more prominent than ever.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”, he asks again.

Annie nods, and he shrugs and says:

“Alright then. I’ll be right here with you.”

Before she can raise her arm to knock, the door flies open and Ronny throws himself at her, his arms cramp around her waist and he squeaks in excitement. Much to her embarrassment, Annie’s first instinct is to flinch away, peel him off of her, but after the initial moment of shock, she decides that actually, hugging her little brother doesn’t feel too bad.

“Hey Ronny”, she whispers and tentatively pats his head with her hand.

“You’re here! You’re actually here!”

Mariah appears in the doorway, followed by both of their parents. There’s something in the way her father wipes his sleeve over his face, the cautious step her mother takes towards her, Mariah’s worried eyes. She forces herself not to think about how they must have felt when they had learned that despite surviving, Annie had still died in the arena.

To make up for the unwelcome feelings of guilt and shame boiling in her stomach, Annie makes sure she spends an excessive amount of time greeting and hugging every single one of her family members. It’s not even as hard as she anticipated.

Still, Annie isn’t as present as she would have been _before_ , most of the questions and exclaims blur into a big colourful mess in her head, and she only gets by by smiling meaningfully and pretending to be lost for words.

She finds herself at the kitchen table, surrounded by her family, for some reason Finnick is there too, silently making tea in the background of the scenario.

“So, Annie”, Mariah finally says, it pierces through the otherwise shapeless sounds, “are you better now? Are you coming back?”

“We know you need to do what’s best for you, but you always have a place here with us”, her father adds. It’s a ridiculous thing to clarify, they’re the ones living in her house.

“It’s just”, Mariah bites her lip, “we miss you.”

Ronny looks at her with watery blue eyes.

“You’re coming back now, aren’t you?”

She’s in the water again then, there’s an earthquake and she’s drowning in blood.

“Annie?”, her mother asks gently.

Mariah reaches for her hand, but Annie pulls it back, shuts her eyes and tries to block out the sound of drowning children.

“I don’t know, I don’t…”, she stammers.

“Don’t worry, darling, take your time.”

That’s her father, she thinks. Everything is starting to melt together, hands are clenching her ankles and pulling her underwater. Whirlpools and gurgling screams full of horror.

Annie realises she’s backing away, there are chairs in the way and driftwood and wreckage, from when the dam broke and everything was washed away. Fingers are still crawling up to her, and Annie feels the way she felt before, the way she felt the first time this happened, feels once again as if, for the first time in her life, she is afraid to drown.

There’s a ringing in her ears, there’s no salt in the water here.

Something hot touches her skin, burning like fire, a sensation so insanely inappropriate and unexpected, it makes Annie trip over herself, fall to the ground, all messy clothes and tangled limbs, her vision blocked by panic and wisps of hair.

“Annie.”

_Annie, Annie, Annie._

She catches her breath.

“Annie, it’s alright, you’re fine. You’re safe now. Don’t worry, Annie, it’s over. I promised, remember? Annie…”

Slowly, she blinks the river away, it’s only when the screaming stops that she realises it must have been her own voice. It takes a moment until she can see clearly again, there’s Finnick on his knees in front of her, a teacup shattered on the floor, hot water spilled on Mags’ pretty trousers.

“Hey”, he says with a small smile. She thinks it’s meant to be encouraging.

Annie tries to tuck her hair behind her ears, erratically scanning the room with her eyes, it’s stable, it’s steady, it’s safe. Her face burns with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry”, she mumbles under her breath.

Finnick’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t say anything, just carefully helps her get back to her feet. Annie cannot bear to look at her parents.

“I think it’s better if you rest a little, don’t you think?”

His hand stays on her back as if he’s afraid she’ll fall over again.

“I’m so sorry, darling…”, her mother begins.

“We miss you!”

“Maybe it is better for you like this. For now.”

Although her father doesn’t seem to be remotely happy with the situation, he nods at Finnick in resignation when he starts to lead her through the room and out of the door. Annie is glad he does, she doesn’t trust her feet to move on their own.

Still, she can’t help the angry tears forming in her eyes, hot with shame and frustration. If she cannot even feel safe with her family, at home, how the fuck will anything ever be okay again? What is wrong with her that she needs Finnick Odair to guide her outside like a blind woman? Why can’t she have the decency to at least say goodbye to them, explain that she doesn’t want to leave, say all the things her tongue is too heavy and too tired to say?

_I love you, mum, dad, I miss you too. I want to stay with you, Ronny. Mariah, I want to get better._

Finnick doesn’t take her back to the house despite claiming she needed to rest, instead, she finds herself in the small bay behind the Victor’s Village, a place she hadn’t known existed. Since it’s shielded by cliffs on both sides, it almost feels like a private thing, carries a certain intimacy.

Annie sinks down on the ground, stubbornly wiping the tears away.

“I’m sorry”, Finnick tells her. He sits beside her like a cliff himself, towering high, shielding.

“Why?”

There’s a long moment of quiet. Annie watches the waves come in, caressing the shore. 

“I know what it feels like when everything is falling apart”, he says, finally.

“When you don’t know how to fix it because you don’t know how to fix yourself.”

It’s cryptic. Of course, with him apparently it always needs to be, mystery upon mystery, secrets piling up behind the trained Capitol-smile. For the first time, Annie allows herself to imagine that they are alike.

Which is an impossibility, she’s just Annie Cresta, her life consists of simple things, like folding her clothes into neat piles, braiding her sister’s hair, helping her parents stocking up the store. She likes to rearrange the shelves and collect shells to put on her windowsill, she wins the Games by tactical thinking and enduring longer than anyone else.

He, on the other hand, is a calamity, loud and unforgettable, a ruthless force, screaming laughter and shifting masquerades, a fucking national spectacle.

And then, he’s just sitting there beside her, all tired eyes and fumbling fingers, making tea in her family’s house, eyebrows raised and running his hands across his face to hide a flicker of sincerity.

Lewis would hate for her to think this way, he was convinced they couldn’t trust him, that he’d sell them out for his own popularity, make them part of the Finnick-Odair-show. Let them die dramatically just for the Capitol’s approval.

“Why else do you think he’s never there for any strategy meetings?”, he asked her after dinner on their third day in the Capitol.

“He doesn’t give a fuck, Annie. We’re better off trusting our guts than anything he says.”

Annie, who had always preferred relying on logic over anything else, thought there probably was some truth to what he said. After all, Lewis had been her friend for years, she knew he was as true as his word, headstrong and explosive, thinking with his fists rather than his brain.

Together they’d make a great team, in the beginning at least. Annie wasn’t planning on sticking with him any longer than she needed to, just as long as it was profitable. In terms of survival, there was no room for pleasantries.

She also thought that if Lewis was right, Finnick Odair was even more stupid than she had expected. Having another winner from Four would be the ultimate way to get the Capitol’s attention. But then again, maybe he was scared they could outshine him.

Before the reaping, Annie had always considered him to be an arrogant idiot, and after she had met him, she had realised he was not only that, but selfish and shallow as well.

While Finnick barely ever made an appearance, and if he did his tips were mostly useless (on the night of the Tribute Parade he told her to cover her décolleté before stepping on the chariot, which was the shittiest advice she’d ever been given, if she was going to fight for her survival, she’d use every weapon available, and anyway, what business was it of his?), Lewis had become an almost trustworthy ally.

On several occasions he had promised to look out for her and had offered to help her during training. Annie didn’t think she needed a protector, but she wasn’t going to refuse his support, every help she could get she would take.

Then of course, the arena happened, and her own naiveté backfired. Growing up, watching the Games had always been a horrendous thing, the gore and the violent slaughter used to make her feel sick to the stomach, but Annie didn’t use to be that breakable.

Despite the fear and the terror of it, she always knew that she was smarter than most, healthier than many and skilled with a knife, capable with a spear. Her mother had made sure of that.

In her head, there had always been a chance for her.

That was until reality hit.

When the boy from One had cut off Lewis’ head, all the abilities she had relied on, every last bit of logic vanished from her head. Annie was left with blood on her hands and the echo of her own screams in her ears, running, running, running.

In the end, she had needed to be saved.

Now, Annie thinks that if she had been wrong about herself, maybe Lewis had been wrong about Finnick, too.

“Lewis told me not to trust you”, she says.

It’s the first time his name has crossed her lips in such a long time, it feels alien, unknown.

The real tragedy is how she had been willing to leave him to die, whereas he had tried everything to keep her safe. That’s what makes his death her fault.

That’s what makes it unbearable.

“He did?”

Finnick doesn’t look at her, watches the sea instead, there’s longing in the way he peers into the distance, in his clenched jaw, the furrowed brows. He looks like he doesn’t want to know.

Annie tells him anyway.

“Yes. He thought you only wanted to keep the Capitol’s attention. That you wanted it to be a show and didn’t care whether we lived or died. He said that’s why you were never there to coach us.”

To her surprise, Finnick closes his eyes, his body vibrates with _something_ , she isn’t sure what exactly it is. A suppressed cry? Cynical laughter? Possibly both.

“Do you believe him?”, he asks after a while.

“I did. Now I don’t know what to think anymore.”

In fact, now it’s really hard to imagine how she could have believed it in the first place. _This_ Finnick surely isn’t capable of selling tributes out for his own fame and glamour. This is the same Finnick she watched sleeping a few nights ago, only less beautiful than then. Or maybe simply in a different way.

“How did you do it?”, she asks.

“The earthquake I mean. I know it was you. It has to be.”

Annie keeps her gaze on him, a silent study in Finnick Odair. Again, it takes him a long moment until he replies, one hand travelling up to his face and rubbing his eyes.

“Perks of being Finnick Odair in the fucking Capitol.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“I don’t want to tell you. I did what I did.”

Always so fucking secretive.

“And why?”, she demands.

“I guess I was just really trying to keep you alive. Lewis too. Before, I mean.”

Annie surprises herself when she says:

“It’s not your fault he died.”

Finnick shrugs. Then, he leans back on his hands and says:

“You know, it’s not your fault either, right? It’s what happens in the Games. No matter how well you play it, there’s always plenty of blame to go around. But we didn’t kill him.”

“Well, we didn’t save him either.”

“No one can be saved.”

“You saved me.”

He turns his head to look at her, his face is drained and hollow and not pretty at all.

“I didn’t save you, Annie. You did that yourself.”

She takes some time to contemplate this, cautiously allows herself to remember some things the madness had blocked from her conscience before, to protect her from the pain.

Days of swimming and clinging onto driftwood, soaked clothes and mud in her ears, in her nose, everywhere. Fighting another tribute, she doesn’t know which one, it was too dirty and too fast to recognise anyone.

Callously holding his head underwater until he stopped twitching. Red swirls of blood dissolving in the river, originating from the scratches he left on her arms.

“I killed him”, she whispers. “Not Lewis, that other boy, I don’t… I drowned him.”

Finnick’s voice is gentler than before, he says:

“I know.”

“I’m a killer?”

“ _I_ am killer. You did what you had to do to survive.”

“So did you.”

“Then maybe we’re both killers”, he sighs.

It’s probably insanity kicking in, but Annie huffs a laugh at this, not a sound of humour, but something like cracking knuckles and getting back up to get knocked down again.

“So, what do we do now?”, she asks him when she’s finished.

Finnick shrugs again and smiles.

“Figure out what the fuck I’m going to cook for dinner.”

They fall into a rhythm.

It’s Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair, two creatures in a cruel world that has made them become alike, spinning around each other, learning how to deal with their respective damages.

Annie forces herself to do some sort of activity every day. Whether it’s swimming or running or letting Mags teach her how to weave, giving gardening a try or simply adding pretty shells to her collection. Sometimes she sits with her siblings on the steps in front of their house to play cards, or even visits her parents at the store.

She gets better at small talk, with them at least, and the occasions on which she has to curl in on herself and press her hands over her ears to block out the sound of death and rushing water grow fewer with every day.

There are good days and bad days, still, but most days, Annie is awake enough to know what’s going on around her. It’s a small thing, but it’s a start.

Progress comes in tiny steps in the form of taking a bath without thinking of dying, Mags assigning her a day on the cooking schedule, sleeping through a full night without waking up in tears once.

It’s a sluggish process which mostly feels like moving backwards instead of improving, but she grits her teeth and gives it her all. After all, that’s what survivors do, she tells herself.

Finnick seems to prefer spending his days in pleasant idleness, napping in the sun and watching her dig up the garden instead of joining in on the action, lazily strolling on the beach while she investigates the ground for shells and snails.

He works out to keep in shape, but Annie gets the feeling he doesn’t do it out of vanity, there’s a dark shadow on his face whenever she catches him exercising. Most of the time, Finnick can be found fishing and practicing knots, whirling his trident around and standing in the shallow water, looking like a fairy tale hero come to life.

Annie thinks that is terribly unfair of him.

“You know, you could, like, actually do something with your time”, she tells him one day when she finds him tanning on the beach, half asleep and with sand in his eyes.

“I am doing something”, he grumbles. “I’m resting.”

“You’re lazy.”

“And you’re mean.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m not worshipping you like everyone else”, Annie snaps and turns to continue jogging along the coast.

“Also, you should help Mags clean the house”, she calls over her shoulder, but doesn’t wait for a response.

Living with Finnick can be excruciating.

It has it’s benefits though, because despite their varying opinions on productivity and the definition of being useful, they develop a certain co-dependency. Whenever Annie wakes up in cold sweat and with a strained voice, blood in her mouth and the screaming river in her ears, Finnick is what guides her back to reality.

Delicately, like drizzling rain, his hands find hers and pull her back, his words call her away from whatever horrors dwell inside of her.

_Annie._

She guesses there’s something in it for him as well. Although she may have been wrong about his motives initially, Annie still doesn’t take him for a selfless person, is certain he has a motivation of his own. But the thought doesn’t really bother her, as long as she can rely on him to be there, she’s fine if they’re somehow helping each other.

Talking is still something that she finds difficult to do, either her words fail her entirely or she blurts out what was meant to stay an unspoken thing, and therefore Annie doesn’t ask him about it, simply accepts the situation as it is.

Now she knows it can always get worse. It can never get better, but it can always get worse.

It happens the next time she wakes up alone.

At this point, Annie is so used to him being there that when he’s not, she simply loses it. Usually, he’d come running if he heard her screams, appear in her field of vision at some point, with soothing words and gentle touches, ready to tell her what is reality and what’s the nightmare, stabilize her and remind her she’s safe, for now, at least.

But he isn’t there tonight.

Annie finds herself stumbling to his room, indifferent to the noise she’s making, her hands are restless at her sides, clutching her shirt, clenched into fists, pulling her hair. The room is empty, but the water is rising, she knows she has to get out if she doesn’t want to drown.

Now she’s running, her legs get tangled up in each other, feet slipping on the wet floor. She doesn’t register the pain as she tumbles on the stairs, landing on her knees and elbows, mud and water in her throat.

And there’s blood everywhere.

It’s clotted in her eyes, turns her vision dark and red, it covers her skin and chokes her. In the end, fear beats the shock and Annie scrambles back up and keeps running, fights her way to the kitchen.

She crashes against the table, shattering plates and glasses on the floor, the impact takes away her breath and Annie curls in on herself, chased and beaten and _afraid_.

“Annie…”

It’s the wrong voice, dangerous. A threat.

She wheels around, digs her fingers into the palm of her hands, there’s hair caught between them and they’re sticky with blood.

“Please, dear, look at me. Stop running, will you. Annie, please.”

Everything is hurt, her arms, her chest, her voice, which is still calling out for help, for something, for Finnick. Annie knows the boy from One, who killed Lewis with one strike of his sword, he’s still out there somewhere.

He’s coming for her next.

Frantically pushing herself away from the voice and the danger, Annie falls to the ground again, sharp edges everywhere around her, piercing through her skin like thorns. It’s just like running in the arena.

Tears burn on her face; Annie is helplessly exposed. Everything is always like it was back then, the earthquake will come, the river will take them away, she’ll clash against the rocks and drift, the hands will pull her ankles again.

_He’s coming for her._

Annie knows it’s him, he lost his sword in the flood, but she recognizes his hands, his shoulders, his smell. They’re wild animals and this is survival, but it is also vengeance and justice to her, and Annie grabs him around the throat and pushes him down, watches how he struggles, lets the water fill his lungs.

There’s a twisted satisfaction to it.

He jerks and quivers, until he doesn’t.

Annie kicks his body away and starts to swim.

Later, Mags will tell her how it took hours until she was calm again, but to Annie it feels like the world simply fades to black. She doesn’t remember Mags leading her upstairs, tugging her in and stroking her hair until she falls asleep, patiently waiting by her side.

The next thing Annie consciously realises is waking up in her bed.

She’s wearing different clothes now and her hair is braided over her shoulders. The room is dark, and electrified, and different. At this point, Annie has gotten used to the disorientation and the uncertainty, every time she zones out for longer than a few minutes, waking up feels exactly like this.

Tonight, it’s like living a déjà vu.

Annie sits up against the headboard and tries to breathe, the night is smooth on her skin, like a silk blanket, pleasant and secure.

When she turns her head, she’s surprised to find Finnick asleep on the other side of the bed.

He’s curled up, one arm covering his face, his hair is a mess, not golden at all, but every tinge of grey in the dark. In contrast to the last time Annie found him passed out in her room, this time his sleep is restless, he’s quivering and mumbling into his sweater, there’s drool and sweat and something else. It cannot be tears, Annie thinks.

After all, this is Finnick Odair.

But lately, Annie has come to know that, actually, she has no clue what the fuck that means, being Finnick Odair.

Annie watches him thrash around in his sleep, chipped words falling off his lips, it’s like they have exchanged places and fates, like she suddenly sees every night of bad dreams and horrors from his perspective, like it’s her turn to pull him out.

So, she whispers: “Finnick.”

And then again, hands travelling across the mattress until they find his shoulder, hesitantly nudging him:

“ _Finnick._ ”

Finally, he jerks awake, jerks away from her, a muffled shout escaping him. It’s a terrible sound which slashes through her skin like a whip, rips it apart and makes her feel pained and battered, because it’s raw and sharp and Finnick sounds so _wounded_.

Her words leave her to fend for herself then, and so she tries to offer comfort in the only way she knows, there’s no choice for her, not really. Annie reaches out to place her hand on his back, but as soon as she touches him, he flinches.

“Don’t.”

Finnick’s voice is raspy and barely even a whisper. Annie places her hands in her lap and commands them to stay there, uncomfortably fumbles for words.

“Are you alright?”

There’s a huff that could be a dry laugh, his shoulders are trembling dangerously and Annie wishes she could see his face, look into his eyes and search for an answer herself without having to interrogate him, but she’s afraid that if she moves, she’ll startle him again.

She wonders if this is what dealing with her on a bad night is like for him.

“Finnick”, she hears herself say, a small plea filling the space between them.

_Finnick, Finnick, Finnick._

“I’m fine”, he chokes out, the cracking in his voice betraying his words.

“Fuck, Annie, I just…”

A sharp inhale that sounds as if he were suffocating.

“I just can’t… I’m sorry. Annie, I’m sorry.”

She says: “Don’t be. We can take care of each other. I can listen.”

“I don’t know how to… I just don’t know”, he whispers.

In many ways, it sounds like a surrender.

Annie cannot bear the thought of Finnick giving in, so she offers:

“I’ll go first. I’ll tell you about my nightmares, then you’ll have to tell me about yours.”

Again, he makes a sound Annie can’t identify, but the shaking has softened and when he replies, his voice is clearer than before.

“What if I can’t?”

“Well, that’s not how the game works, stupid. A nightmare for a nightmare. Otherwise it would be a pretty terrible deal, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess it would be.”

Then: “Fine. You go first.”

And so she tells him. In a way, it’s a relief to finally say it out loud, to explain all her many, many breakdowns and mood swings, the tantrums and the screaming. He never asked her about any of it before, and Annie is starting to understand that that is because he thought it would spare her needless suffering, but now she thinks that if he had, she might have talked about it sooner.

Now that she does speak, it’s like a broken dam all over again, she doesn’t leave out any details, tells him about the river and the blood, about Lewis, the scratches, the boy from One. Since she still can’t see his face it’s hard to say how much he already knew. She guesses probably quite a lot.

Nevertheless, this feels like the right thing to do, ripping away the mistrust and starting over with sincerity. While she talks, Annie keeps looking at him, watches his muscles tense and relax along with her story, and fights the urge to move closer and crawl around him to see the expression on his face.

She doesn’t realise she has finished until she becomes aware of the sudden silence, its heavy on her chest, holds her down, pulls her under.

At last, he says: “Sometimes you called out for him.”

Annie’s fingers start to twitch at her clothes, her braids, her skin.

“I always thought how terrible it was that he couldn’t be there, and I was the one who was instead.”

His head moves and he snorts, brittle laughter that makes Annie’s insides twist.

“That came out wrong, didn’t it? I’m trying to say that I hate that I couldn’t be who you needed me to be”, he clarifies.

Annie thinks about kissing him then. Just for a brief moment the thought crosses her mind, it’s gone again almost as soon as it appeared, but it’s there for half a heartbeat, nearly tangible.

Finnick says: “I dreamed about the Capitol.”

“That’s where I went the other day. They call me there sometimes, it’s kind of a thing…”

He takes a shaky breath, Annie tries to make sense of his words, tries to keep up with him without drifting away.

“It’s dates and stuff, Snow likes to pass me around as a treat or a bribe or just, you know, has me sold to whoever pays the most. If you’re rich or someone of importance you can ask for Finnick Odair as entertainment for the night. You can ask for others too, of course. I’m just the favourite.”

Annie isn’t sure if the detached manner in which he says it makes it better or worse, her mind is rushing through possibilities and implications, a few very ugly expressions manifest in her head and then even uglier images of bodies and colours, and Finnick drowning in between.

“Dates?”, she hears herself ask.

His reply is another snort, softer this time, resigned.

“One-night stands?”, he offers, “Sex? Fucking? Prostitution?”

 _Rape_ , Annie thinks, but her lips stay pressed together.

“Being a victor has it’s perks”, Finnick murmurs, voice thick with sarcasm. She sees how he searches for something to add in the way his shoulders move, his hands are as restless as hers, picking apart the threads of his clothes.

For a moment she wonders why they wouldn’t want her, she’s a victor too, isn’t she? Her thoughts whisper _crazy_ and _undesirable_ , but then it begins to dawn on her that that’s not the point.

In fact, she realises, she’s very fucking lucky.

“It’s been like this for a while now, ever since… Well, it used to be worse for me. I was… I was in a bad place, before, I mean. It’s better now, I guess. It’s just still… It’s all fucked up in my head, you know?”

And oh, doesn’t she know about fucked up in the head.

It seems that the more she gets to know him though, the more she starts to question her own judgement. Not to mention her general people skills.

“Can I… Can I touch you?”, she asks.

“Please don’t. I’m not… I’m _stained_ , Annie. They’re still everywhere, I can feel them all over me, I can’t, I don’t…”

His voice trails off into the darkness and Annie pulls her braids and tries to scrape together enough sanity to do something, to break through to him.

“Finnick”, she says.

_(Finnick, Finnick, Finnick.)_

He takes a deep breath and turns to look at her. For a moment, there is just this, glowing eyes and shadow framed faces. At some point, they find themselves lying on their backs, as far apart as possible, listening to each other’s breathing and waiting for the night to pass.

As it is his way, afterwards, the conversations come in waves.

Annie feels like she’s never prepared when they happen, sometimes there’s too much going on on the inside already to focus on anything he says, but either way, she always tries her best to listen.

“I think it’s worse when they want me to enjoy it. The guys that go about it with whips and rope and rough fucking without preparation are one thing. But the ones that think they can make me fall for them, that want vanilla shit and declarations of love, those are the unbearable ones.”

Finnick looks at the net between his fingers, and Annie firmly places her hand on the pier between them, palm facing the sky. When he takes it, it gives her a feeling of unreasonable relief.

Annie is standing knee-deep in Lewis’ blood; the ground is shaking beneath her feet. She tries to run, but she’s stuck, trapped, unable to move.

There’s a hand on her shoulder then, and she hears him call her name.

_Annie, Annie, Annie._

Slowly, pulling her back.

“He killed my father the year before you won. I freaked out on a client, fucked it up that one single time and the next day, Snow showed me tapes of what they did to him.”

He’s on his stomach in the sand, the sun burning down on his bare back. Annie, who has spent the past half hour running up and down the beach and just collapsed beside him, sweat soaking through her clothes and strands of hair sticking to her face, waits for him to continue.

“Afterwards, he sent me back to her to make up for it.”

One night, Annie finds herself wrapped in his arms. Finnick’s asleep, but when she stirs, he wakes and frowns.

“Is this okay? You seemed calmer when I was here and I just kind of figured…”

“Yeah”, she whispers.

She can feel his breath on her skin, hot and bitter.

After a while, he says: “Before you won, I thought about killing myself every single day.”

It lingers in the air for a moment, long enough for her to picture a dozen unpretty scenarios. A different knot than the usual sailor’s knots, dangling legs, or razor blades and cuts, deeper than the scratches in her dreams.

Annie gently brushes the side of his face with her fingers, entangling their bodies even further.

“And still you keep telling me how I’m making your life so much harder.”

Finnick chuckles.

“Only when you make me do chores”, he hums.

“Well, someone has to.”

“Oh, believe me, Mags’ been doing a pretty good job on her own.”

“I’d say that’s debateable.”

When he laughs again, Annie can’t help the giggle that escapes her throat. It’s silly, she thinks, he says he wants to die, and she keeps teasing him. Heartless.

“Finnick?”

“Hm?”

“It’s better now, right?”, she asks. The words are burning on her tongue.

“Oh. Yes. I suppose it is.”

She can hear in his voice that he’s already half asleep again.

“’s easier… Things…. have a reason now”, he mumbles.

“Oh.”

She takes a moment to think about it. Then, she says:

“Thank you for telling me, Finnick.”

The only response she gets is the rhythmic sound of breathing.

They’re fighting again.

The anxiety increases as the reaping approaches, bad days become bad weeks, and to Annie it is utterly incomprehensible how she managed to sleep through the entire Games the year before, when now they’re overshadowing her existence even before they have begun.

Of course, deep down she knows that lashing out isn’t going to resolve anything, but she lacks the ability to pull herself together. The thought of being left behind is unendurable.

“Would it kill you to stop being difficult for one fucking minute?”, Finnick growls at her through the sound of clattering plates and running water. 

They’re in the kitchen, Annie is furiously wiping the table, while he is doing the washing-up. Apparently their constant bickering has finally pushed Mags over the edge, after lunch, she left the house for the rest of the day, but not without threatening that if they don’t get it together, she will force them to scrub the old pier in the Victor’s Bay, or clean out the attic.

“Oh, right _, I’m_ the one being difficult here.”

“ _Yes!_ You’re pushy and rude and just… it’s unbearable!”

“Unbearable? Really, Odair? You really wanna go there? Don’t make me tell you all the things that I find _unbearable_ about you!”

Annie smacks the cloth down and glares at him provokingly.

“Please”, he jeers, “enlighten me.”

“Alright. Alright. You are arrogant. Cocky. Insensible, irrational, a terrible, terrible cook, self-absorbed and utterly annoying with your self-destructive idiocy!”

She unintentionally raises her voice a little more with every word, it’s just so easy to let all the frustration and fear out on him like that.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fucking invested in everything I do”, Finnick replies, his voice matching hers in tone and volume.

“Just back off, Annie!”

“I can’t _just back off_! I can’t just pretend that you’re doing fine and that nothing about this, this whole thing”, she waves her hands in a helpless attempt to stress the extent of the problem, “that nothing ever gets to you, that you can just go there again, that I can just stay here on my own, that we can do any of this at all!”

“It’s not a fucking choice! There’s no other fucking option! Do you think I want any of this, that I’m okay with it? That I’m not fucking scared out of my mind?”

“No, I don’t, Finnick, that’s why I can’t stand you pretending you’re okay, when clearly, you’re not.”

“Oh, so it would help if I was whining and crying and acting as miserable as I feel?”

“NO. Just, don’t fucking lie to me. Don’t act like you need to protect me.”

“But that is _exactly_ what I have to do, Annie, don’t you get it? That’s exactly the problem! It’s not just Viona and Mags anymore that he uses against me, it’s you too. I have to protect you!”

“You can’t. I’ve already been through everything, Finnick. I was in the arena too, I survived, like you, I’m not helpless, Fin, and I’m definitely not weak. Be straight with me. I can take it, you know I can, just don’t shut me out and let yourself suffer in silence, I can’t watch that, that’s what I can’t bear!”

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

“Because I care! _Because you made me care!_ You don’t get to do that and then push me away again, you don’t get to treat me like a child, not when it’s obvious we’re clinging onto each other for dear life, Finnick.”

He stares at her for a moment, the sound of the running water is echoing in her ears, her throat sore from screaming.

“Fuck this”, he says then, and with one big step he’s right in front of Annie, his face only inches away from hers.

When he kisses her, something inside of her is set lose, a wild animal that had been caged for too long, a thousand sensations rush through her body, the animal is hungry and ruthless and untameable.

But Annie is patient, she keeps her movements slow, her fingers travelling across his back, cautious, ready to pull away at any second. She knows touching can be too much for him sometimes. She knows him like she knows the tides, an ancient, unshakeable certainty, set in her bones.

His lips are hungry, furious, like he has freed his own animal and Annie feels its ferocity, the stormy, calamity-like craving that possesses her as well.

“Annie”, he says.

_Annie, Annie, Annie._

His voice is the beating of her heart.

It’s over just as suddenly as it began. He pulls away, not far, his face is still close enough for the tip of her nose to touch on his cheek, but far enough so they’re not kissing anymore. Annie tries to read his face, the quickly changing expression flickering across.

Finnick moves and she knows it’s to wipe them away with the palm of his hand, so she grabs his wrist and holds onto it, accepts the way he immediately tries to draw back again. She thinks he looks almost resigned.

“What?”, she asks. “That’s it? You kiss me and just run away again?”

“You don’t get it”, he says, his voice is soothing and sad. “The people I love are hostages. Collateral. You don’t want to live with a gun against your head.”

And Annie, always the mad girl, starts to laugh. She’s giggling and he doesn’t seem to follow, but he doesn’t step back either, just waits, watches, his hand still caught in her grip, skin against skin, faces only inches apart.

Finally, she says: “I am already living with a gun against my head. Everyone is. I don’t care, Finnick. I don’t have time to wait for another miracle, life is fragile and short, and I’ve been half dead for too long already. This feels good. I want what feels good, for both of us, Fin. You deserve to think of yourself, too, you know.”

His eyes are dark with pain.

“I am thinking of myself, Annie. I cannot survive causing the death of another person I love. I couldn’t survive if it were you.”

“Will you stop already! I’m not dying. And if I am, then so be it, Finnick, I am tired, so fucking tired of being afraid all the time. I want this. Don’t you?”

“Fuck, yes. I wish I wouldn’t, but I do. I do, I really do.”

“Then don’t run”, she says. Somehow, she manages to make it sound less like a plea than it actually is.

Finnick breathes and then slowly moves his hand to cup her face, she’s still holding onto him, doesn’t ever want to let him go.

“Fuck”, he says again.

His smile is quiet and intimate, nothing like the performance he puts on for the cameras.

“You really are insufferable, you know that, right?”

“I’m crazy, remember. I’m supposed to be difficult.”

He chuckles softly. Then, he leans in again, but Annie moves backwards, tightens her grip on his wrist.

“So, we do this?”, she asks.

“Yes”, he says. “Yes, we do.”

He has soap stains on his forehead and his hair is messier than ever, but somehow this only makes him look more charming. That’s what Finnick is best at, being charming.

Annie isn’t charming, she barely even makes likeable for most people. Most of the time she thinks she isn’t really anything, fragile in every single way, trying too hard to fit into the person she was before the Games, like squeezing into clothes you’ve long outgrown.

Finnick is a saint and she is helplessly, undeservingly in love with him.

In a strange moment of sobriety, she realises that it cannot be. That she cannot ask him to be with her, not when he is kind and collected and forgiving, and she’s petty, self-righteous, judgemental. Not after hundreds of women have used and abused him and he’s learned to be safe with her, just like she is with him.

But then she sees his eyes light up when he looks at her, feels how he is trying so hard to make it work, because this is what she asked him to do, because this is what they agreed on.

“I got it all wrong, Annie”, he tells her one night, a secret whisper, shielded in the shadows of the room.

“I thought I was the one protecting you, that I somehow was trying to safe you, that you needed me to. But it was always the other way around”, he says.

“You were always the one saving me.”

.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, please leave your thoughts in the comments, I'd really appreciate it! Also, again, if you want to, go listen to the song in the title, Fear of the Water by SYML.


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